Evolution
by StarkContrastStartles
Summary: Evolution of the characters. Ziva's life from Mossad through Somalia to becoming a proper Agent.


The solitary woman let out a slow breath, the silvery air swirling in front of her face, and tossed her wild mane of dark hair over her shoulder. Her hand hovered near her belt, waiting for the signal.

A man, dressed head to toe in plain black, glanced up at the summit of the hill. He could see nothing, the night was pitch-black and he was all the way at the foot of the hill, looking through the tinted windows of his black 4x4.

The crunch of twigs underfoot came through the radio, alerting his senses, and he tensed, listening intently for further confirmation of human activity. A low murmur of voices achieved this, and he flicked the switch, bringing the clearing into a blinding wave of light.

The woman saw the light and pulled her gun from her pocket, aiming it at the men and shooting both in quick succession. Neither had time even for a surprised yelp before they fell to the ground, their bodies intact, save for the small hole in each of their skulls. Turning, she ran lightly but swiftly down the other side of the hill.

The man hopped down from his perch in the driver's seat and jogged over to the bodies, pulling on his latex gloves and lifting them one-by-one into the boot of the car, grateful to his partner's accuracy in shooting so his upholstery would not be stained by blood. A simple killing which had been executed without a hitch: the perfect job.

The bodies were sent by second class post to the local police station the next day. By that time, the killers had already locked onto their next targets.

Her brother fell with no time even for a grunt. Once he was down, there was no chance of taking it back. He was dead. And she was holding the smoking gun.

It didn't matter that he had been a cold blooded killer. It didn't matter that he had betrayed his family and his country. It didn't matter that he had stolen all trust from her. It didn't matter that he was a heartless terrorist. He was her brother and that was mattered in death.

She walked slowly down the stairs, the rifle limp in her hand. Passing the man whose life she had saved at great cost, she heard his words through deaf ears. Her mouth was moving before she had considered what the words meant. He was her half-brother. The reassuring, sympathetic touch of hands electrified her, lighting a spark of hope in the dismal gloom. Then he moved off and her heart was plunged back into blackness.

Her body gave way beneath her and she sank into a chair. She was singing a tribute to him before his body was even cold, before she had had time to comprehend what that bullet whizzing through the air had done.

No more familial laughs, no more light hearted banter between the two people who knew each other best. He would forgive her anything but still she tried never to upset him. Spending so much time together, anyone else would have been driven to hatred. But their love had never faltered. They had been more than siblings; friends, colleagues, partners. They had worked together, shooting their way through a solid mass of menace. She was paid to have his back but she would have gone the extra thousand miles to protect him. And she knew that he would do the same for her.

Yet, she hadn't protected him this time. She had sent him falling through the air. It was her hand which had punctured a neat hole in his skull. This was one thing that he would never have the chance to forgive her for.

She didn't deserve the warm welcome she had been offered. The initial reaction was more bewilderment than a shunning. Within days, she had been readily accepted into their inner fold. She made her mark on their team and found herself appreciating the understanding they had of humane emotions. She could feel warm blood coursing through her veins for the first time in her life. She had shedded her chameleon's skin and exposed herself to her friends.

She had expected the cases to be duller than what she was used to, but she found herself strangely drawn into them. Their complexity was nothing she had ever experienced and she was being challenged mentally rather than physically or emotionally. She could feel herself developing.

Small changes which happened gradually often went unnoticed but, every so often, someone would look at her and see a whole new person. She was no longer a trained killer, not trusted by anyone, but a human being with the ability to love and care and grieve. It was a step forward and the ground she had stepped off had crumbled behind her, leaving a void. If she tried to go back to how she had been, she would be consumed by the abyss.

That fact made the choice easy. She wouldn't go back. Simples, as the meercat would say.

A white-hot iron was pressed into her raw skin, searing a fresh welt on her scarred back. Her mouth opened and she breathed heavily, fighting not to scream. Closing her eyes peacefully, she drank up every wave of torturous pain, feeling every burn to stop it haunting her later.

He stayed for hours, working in steady silence, branding her skin with a rhythmic repetition. The stifling heat did not seem to bother him, though it was choking her and making the long days even more unbearable.

Once he had left, she stretched out, moving her cramped muscles in a futile attempt to ease her agonising pain. If she remained calm, the pain would be second nature to her, just like when someone doesn't notice the loud ticking of a clock after a while.

Her strategy was logical, but logic was often flawed and it was rarely effective. Some days, however, she managed to feel better, more at peace with herself, and those were the days she lived for. She had seen too much suicide in her time.

She knew that these people would not give up on her until she was dead and, since they were not going to kill her when she still held the information they needed in her head, the only escape would be to accomplish the ignorant bliss herself, which made sense, except for the simple fact that she refused to.

Her death would be useful to someone, she had promised herself that a long time before this ordeal. Her life seemed fairly fruitless to her, but she wouldn't let her death go unhelpful. She had also once decided that she would never be captured alive. When push came to shove, the former promise had won out. Perhaps it was her basic, animalistic survival instinct. Perhaps it was just the way she was. Whatever it was, it was keeping her alive through hell.

She yawned widely, retaining her ability to move her mouth despite a broken jaw, and closed her eyes, settling down to sleep.

Sitting in the air-conditioned Jeep was a surreal experience. She should be dead. Instead, she was sitting placidly in the back seat, bouncing over the uneven desert floor. It didn't make any sense to her pain-addled mind.

The driver glanced up at the rear view mirror and smiled reassuringly at his broken passenger. She was resilient and he trusted that she would be able to push through this purgatory and emerge, clean and fresh, on the light side.

Her head felt heavy on her frail neck and she longed to curl up and give in to the agony. Only after the trials were over would she admit defeat. Her captors would never get to experience the euphoria of victory so she could freely die with no regrets.

Except, her driver, her rescuer, her hero, her friend, would not take kindly to putting in the effort and getting no reward. She still had obligations and debts to pay off before she could die a free woman, leaving no legacy.

Therefore, she had to sit upright, enduring the pain in silence, and die slowly. She had felt her soul rotting inside her; she figured that it was only a matter of time before her body followed suit. She was a hollow shell now with nothing to stuff her with. Her body was the Lady of Shallot's tower: it was built around her soul and, once it had died, nothing could get in to replace it.

The rumble of the following Jeep brought a faint smile to her face. She was surrounded by people who loved her and had risked their lives for her. She was dying painfully, but she would suffer in silence for their sakes. It was the least they deserved.

Doubts still resided in her mind, however. They were driving towards the airport to take them home, they had told her. But whose home? She didn't have a home anymore. An unwanted vagabond, that's what she was. That's all she would ever be.

Re-adjusting to civilisation was difficult. She read and re-read the William Golding novel, The Lord of The Flies; marvelling at the dark themes which were mirrored in what she had seen and wondering what happened to the boys when they returned to Britain.

She reminded herself that she was not the monster; she had been the victim in the story. Her captors had been the Beast, the evil force. And, of course, her story had ended better, since the bad-guys had not got to return home, they had been killed.

Slowly and not at all surely, she resumed her previous habits; eating at her favourite restaurant, drinking milky coffee at her regular times of the day, renewing various magazine subscriptions, letting her apartment get into a terrible state and fruitlessly promising to tidy it up soon.

Her relationships with the team improved slowly, re-establishing the trust which had crumpled. She was pulled back into the fold and embraced more warmly than ever. She was home.


End file.
